THE WISDOM OF AMERIGO BONASERA

I believe in America. America has made my fortune. And I raised my daughter in the American fashion. I gave her freedom, but -- I taught her never to dishonor her family. She found a boyfriend; not an Italian. She went to the movies with him; she stayed out late. I didn't protest. Two months ago, he took her for a drive, with another boyfriend. They made her drink whiskey. And then they tried to take advantage of her. She resisted. She kept her honor. So they beat her, like an animal. When I went to the hospital, her nose was a'broken. Her jaw was a'shattered, held together by wire. She couldn't even weep because of the pain. But I wept. Why did I weep? She was the light of my life -- beautiful girl. Now she will never be beautiful again. Sorry... I -- I went to the police, like a good American. These two boys were brought to trial. The judge sentenced them to three years in prison-- suspended sentence. Suspended sentence! They went free that very day! I stood in the courtroom like a fool. And those two bastard, they smiled at me! Then I said to my wife, "for justice, we must go to Don Corleone."

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In a previous post, I admitted that I did not lose my virginity until I was 26. Well, a little over a year after that I had my first girlfriend, Lacey. At the risk of sounding like a total asshole, I never really liked her that much. But she was into me, she was a fellow Illini fan in San Diego, and I figured I should at least experience a relationship so I’d have some idea what to expect in the future. So I dated her for about four months. This is the story about what happened next.

—

It was a chilly Friday night in lovely San Diego. At the Division II school I worked at we were hosting women’s volleyball and men’s soccer at the same time. Volleyball was ranked #2 in the nation and dispatched their foe in less than 90 minutes, so that by 8:30 I was beginning to get the wild notion in my head that I might actually get to go out and get drunk tonight. After finishing up I went out to the soccer field to see where things were at. Surprise, surprise, we were deadlocked in a 0-0 tie late in the second half. (When I die and go to hell I’m sure it will be a neverending scoreless soccer game. With stands full of foreigners and sell-out Americans trying to tell me how futbol is the purest sport.) My dreams of intoxication were fading fast.

But then my buddy G-Man called me. “Dude, what’re you doin’ tonight?”

“Well, right now I’m watching a bunch of soccer fags not score.”

“Dude, I’ve got twelve super-hot chicks on their way over to my place right now to pre-party, then we’re goin’ to Typhoon.”

“Damn you!” As most of you know by now, Typhoon was my favorite bar in San Diego.

Let me tell you a little about Meghan. I’d only met her once, I couldn’t tell you a single thing about her other than the fact that she knew G-Man from college. But I did know that she was hot. Smokin’ hot. About 5’8″, blond with blue eyes and a killer California tan, great tits and an ass that wouldn’t stop. Everything about her was pure sex appeal. Mind you, she might have been retarded or gay or even a communist for all I know, but just the opportunity to stare at her cleavage all night was more than enough to make me pull rank on my staff and cut out of the soccer game just as it was heading for double overtime.

(Sidebar: I’m sure there are some soccer fans reading this story, and I do not mean to offend, but honestly, is there anything dumber than the term “Sudden Victory?” Not “sudden death,” no, that would be too manly, too aggressive, too much like real sports. Sudden Victory.)

So as I’m slinking away into the night, hiding from upper management types that might question my decision to leave things in the hands of my borderline-retarded assistant, my phone rings again. It’s the ex- girlfriend.

Since our break up, we had been on surprisingly good terms, mostly due to the fact that we had kept a pretty safe distance from one another, making it easy to avoid those tough “We need to talk” moments.

She was piss drunk at a friend’s party (a friend I’d love to sleep with, but that another story). I told her I was heading out to Typhoon with G-Man. “Ohhh,” she said, “I was going to go there but now I’m too drunk and I don’t have a ride.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I answered, not meaning it. We exchanged a few pleasantries and that was that.

Before I go any further, I should roll back the tape a bit. After breaking up with Lacey I had sent an email to a couple of my closest friends explaining the reasons for my dumping her. I won’t bore you with that lengthy diatribe, but I will quote the brilliant email my buddy Family Man sent me in response:

“[Single White Alcoholic], while all of these are valid reasons for a split, I’m willing to bet a nice bottle of gin that you will get to experience some good old fashioned break-up sex in the next 30 days. Scientific studies have shown that male/female relationships ending due to break up are closely followed by a one-time intense sexual encounter involving the split couple 94% of the time. I’m sorry to say it’s a virtual scientific fact that you will have to experience some break up sex at least one more time in the near future. The fact that it’s football season and both your favorite college football team and your fantasy football team are going to suck will ensure that September will be a very emotional time for you. Throw in your normal rate of alcohol consumption and a little bad judgment and you’ll be up to your ears in reason #4 [bad blowjobs] before you know it.”

Although this piece of brilliant illumination was fresh in my mind, I wasn’t really considering it at that moment. I was just thinking about a great night of drinking with G-Man and staring at the beautiful angel Meghan.

I raced home, took two shots, made myself a fat Red Bull and vodka for the shower (sippy cups: they’re not just for kids!), and raced out the door. Along the 15 minute walk to the bar, sipping on another cocktail, I got a text from Lacey: “R U at Typhoon?”

Oh Lord. I should have lied, but being new to relationships (and break-ups), I fired back a quick “On my way,” to which she responded “I’m trying to find a ride but everyone is drunk.”

I got to Typhoon and found G-Man so drunk he could barely stand. “Been drinking since 4,” he announced, putting his arm around me. “I’m toast… Come on, let’s do shots.” We knocked back some Jager, then he said, “Come on, let’s go find Meghan.”

We found Meghan and her friends in a corner of the bar. She was almost as hammered as G-Man. G-Man immediately seemed to sober up (he’s a world-class wingman) and with absolute clarity introduced me to her, even though we’d met before. He raved about what a great guy I was, how good of friends we were, everything to set me up as well as possible. Then he gave me a quick look, a conspiratorial smile, and told her, “And he’s a huge Lakers fan.” Then he disappeared.

(For the record, I am NOT a Lakers fan. I don’t even particularly like the NBA. What a guy.)

Meghan took my hand extra affectionately and started talking some nonsense about her Lakers. I stepped right into character, talking about the Purple and Gold like they were my favorite team. I lamented the loss of D-Fish; talked optimistically about Lamar Odom; reminisced about countless smackdowns laid on the hated Sacramento Queens. I was on top of my game. And the best part was she was so drunk I had free rein to ogle her marvelous breasts to my heart’s content.

G-Man hadn’t been lying about there being a dozen girls in the group, so I didn’t get to spend as much time with her as I would have liked. They drug her off to the dance floor, and while she was dancing G-Man and I drank more. And it was just about that time that Lacey started calling. “We’re on our way there. Don’t leave!”

Shit.

How to handle this one? I knew I was getting too drunk to juggle. Without a solid solution, I decided to immerse myself in more booze in the hope that it might spur some ingenious plan.

The alcohol didn’t help, but G-Man did. When Lacey walked in I turned to him with a look of confused desperation, to which he just patted me reassuringly on the shoulder and said, “She’s the bullpen dude. You hope you don’t have to turn to your bullpen, but it’s there if you do.”

Wiser words have never been spoken.

Lacey arrived with one of her law school friends and some random dude she knew from somewhere. I had met him once before but had been drunk at the time, and upon learning he was a Michigan grad I’d rudely ignored him. This time I gave him an aloof handshake and continued to ignore him. I was friendly enough to Lacey and her other friend, but I was definitely focused elsewhere.

At this point the night begins to get fuzzy. Meghan came back our direction and I was talking to her, probably too drunk to even think about whether Lacey was noticing. As it turned out it wasn’t necessary. Apparently the Michigan guy was trying to make a move on her. Had I known this my reaction would have been, “Great, have at it.” But instead, while I was diverted, G-Man took it upon himself to bitch Lacey out for “pulling that bullshit” in front of me. He ripped her up and down, tearing her apart not only for bringing another guy around to “make me jealous,” but a scumbag from a rival school on top of it. Stumbling drunk and slurring his words, G-Man then threatened to beat the Michigan guy up.

G-Man was so effective Lacey came up to me apologizing for her behavior, and I just nodded drunkenly, telling her it was alright (it would be several days before I pieced things together enough to know what the fuck she was talking about). It was nearing last call and Meghan was about to puke, her friends carrying her to the door, and I realized I’d missed my chance.

So, with sad reluctance I walked out to the mound and called for the bullpen…

And it was just that easy. The Michigan boy disappeared, the other friend drove us to my apartment, and drunken sloppy monkey sex ensued.

In the morning there was that agonizing awkwardness, that terrified sense that at any moment she would say something like “We need to talk,” or “Does this mean we’re back together?” or “Wow, you’re a lousy lay when you’re drunk.” But fortunately she was in even worse shape than I was, half sick with a hangover and trying to piece together the previous night’s events. She didn’t even remember how she had gotten to my place. I just laid there in a hungover stupor, trying to put off getting up as long as possible. Somehow I lucked out and her friend returned to pick her up, so I was free to stay in bed and sleep off my hangover.

But in the aftermath things definitely got more awkward between us. Lacey’s law school friend informed her about G-Man’s threatening to beat up the Michigan boy and she wasn’t happy about it. I refrained from making an issue of why G-Man felt compelled to take such action (i.e. the Wolverine was trying to get in her pants) because that would have required more talking, and because it would have implied that I cared who she slept with.

The next day I saw her at the bar during the Bears game, and thankfully she waited until after the game to start in again, but she still wanted to complain about the way I had been treating her since the breakup. Then, not 15 minutes after she had walked out the door, she was texting me apologizing and inviting me to dinner with her friends. I turned off my phone and took a nap. I may not have known much about relationships, but I knew things were going to get a lot worse before they got better.

As a follow up to the weekend’s events, I had to email Family Man to concede our bet of a bottle of gin. And I also had to ask him a question:

“You said it was a 94% probability of a one-time break-up sex… what are the odds of it happening more than once? Others have said that break up sex can be some of the best sex ever… was this not the case because we were so hammered, or is there just no hope whatsoever of ever having good sex with this girl? And what are the odds of us staying at least civil enough that I don’t have to find another bar to watch the Illini’s next seven losses?”

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THE WISDOM OF DOUG STANHOPE

They say if you give a man a fish, he'll eat for a day, but if you teach a man to fish.... then he's gotta get a fishing license. But he doesn't have any money. So he's got to get a job and get into the Social Security system and pay taxes, and now you're gonna audit the poor cocksucker, 'cause he's not really good with math. So he'll pull the IRS van up to your house, and he'll take all your shit. He'll take your black velvet Elvis and your Batman toothbrush, and your penis pump, and that all goes up for auction with the burden of proof on you because you forgot to carry the one, 'cause you were just worried about eating a fucking fish, and you couldn't even cook the fish 'cause you needed a permit for an open flame. Then the Health Department is going to start asking you a lot of questions about where are you going to dump the scales and the guts. 'This is not a sanitary environment.' And ladies and gentlemen, if you get sick of it all at the end of the day... it's not even legal to kill yourself in this country.